Have you ever opened your door to someone claiming to be broke, only for them to show up dripping in designer labels? Because when my husband's "poor mom" walked out of a Bentley holding a Chanel tote, I knew I was in for the ride of my life.

It all started with a phone call one afternoon.

"Hey, babe," Dan said, his voice unusually strained, the kind of tone that instantly told me something was wrong.

"What's up?" I asked, already bracing myself.

He hesitated for a moment, then let out a long sigh. "I just got off the phone with Mom. She's… uh… having a really hard time right now. She lost her place and doesn't have anywhere to go. I told her she could stay with us for a while."

I nearly dropped my fork. "Wait. What? YOUR MOM IS BROKE??"

Dan's voice softened like he was trying to cushion the blow. "Yeah. She didn't want to tell me at first, but apparently, she's been struggling with money for a while. She's embarrassed, Layla. And she wants to move in with us."

I sat back in my chair, my sandwich suddenly unappetizing. "Irene? Struggling with money?" I asked, my words dripping with disbelief. "Dan, we're talking about the same Irene who bought a $500 scarf because, what was it, she 'needed something to brighten her mood'? That Irene is... BROKE?!"

He groaned. "I know it's hard to believe, okay? But people go through tough times. She's still human, Layla."

I wasn't buying it. "Did she even tell you what happened?" I asked.

"No. She didn't want to get into it. She sounded upset. Look, I know she's not your favorite person, but she's my mom. I can't just leave her out in the cold."

I rubbed my temples, trying to make sense of what he was saying. "Dan, I'm not saying we shouldn't help her, but don't you think this is all a little… sudden? How do you go from flaunting Louis Vuitton bags on Instagram to being homeless overnight?"

"She's too proud to admit how bad things are," he said, the frustration in his voice bubbling to the surface. "Layla, she's my mom. What was I supposed to do... tell her no?"

I sighed, torn between suspicion and guilt. Dan wasn't wrong. Irene and I didn't exactly have a warm and fuzzy relationship. But she was his mom. What could I say?

"Okay," I said reluctantly. "She can stay in the guest room. But, Dan…"

"What?" he asked, a hint of impatience in his tone.

"Just… promise me you'll keep your eyes open. Something about this doesn't feel right. And it's just a temporary arrangement, alright?"

He let out another sigh, softer this time. "Thank you," he said. "I know this means a lot to her. And to me."

"Yeah," I muttered, glancing at the clock. "I just hope we're not opening Pandora's box."

Dan chuckled nervously, but neither of us really laughed.

As I hung up the phone, something about the whole situation didn't sit right with me. And I had a feeling I wasn't wrong.

The next day, Irene arrived. And let me tell you — if there was ever a way to scream NOT STRUGGLING, she nailed it.

I heard the rumble of a car pulling into our driveway and glanced out the window, expecting to see a cab or maybe an Uber. Instead, a sleek black Bentley rolled in like it was gliding on air, the glossy paint practically reflecting the entire neighborhood.

"What the...?? Oh my God! " I whispered to myself, craning my neck to get a better look.

The driver stepped out first, rushing to open the back door with a flourish. And there she was: IRENE. She emerged like a movie star on a red carpet, her tailored trench coat cinched perfectly at the waist, oversized sunglasses perched on her nose, and a Chanel tote dangling off her arm like the crown jewel.

I blinked, trying to process the scene unfolding in front of me. Is this real? Am I being pranked? Dan told me she was... broke.

My husband stepped outside, clearly unfazed, his face lighting up as Irene threw her arms around him dramatically.

"Oh, my sweet boy," she cooed, her voice dripping with affection. "You've saved me! I don't know what I would've done without you."